“Are you more comfortable standing than sitting?” she asked.
“Depends on what you mean by comfortable.” He gave her a slanted smile. “Physically or mentally?”
“I’ll take an answer to either one.”
He took another swallow, studying her over the edge of his glass. She sat straight with her knees and ankles together, her glass resting on one thigh. Her skin was creamy against the dark blue of her shirt, another clue that her hair color was real. Her gaze didn’t flinch from his, but he caught the creeping pink of a blush rising in her cheeks. Her composure was not as firm as she tried to make it appear. “I was attempting to interrupt your interrogation by standing up, but you refuse to be distracted.”
“I’ve heard that complaint before.” She inspected the table next to her chair before she set her glass down on a silver ashtray. Leaning forward, she locked her gaze on his face. “May I try something? It won’t take long.”
“That’s very open-ended. I’m not sure I can answer it.”
“Will you trust me?”
“And that is an even more difficult question to answer.” He looked at her supplicating posture. There was a taut edge of desperation in her face. He shrugged and sat down. “I’m not sure I can commit to trusting you, but go ahead and try whatever it is.”
Relief softened the line of her jaw. “Thank you.” She reached down to unzip her duffel bag, pulling a black plastic case out of it before she stood up. “I’d like to use a little electrical stimulation on your neck, if you’ll allow me. It will help the muscles release.”
“Why my neck?”
“I’ve been watching you move,” she said, walking toward him, the case almost hidden behind her thigh. She looked as though she were approaching a skittish horse. “You’re holding your neck and shoulders stiffly.”
“So it isn’t my animal magnetism that’s been holding your attention.”
She ignored his provocation and kept moving until she was behind his chair. “I’m going to touch your neck now, just to see where the worst tightness is. Is that all right?”
“Go ahead.” Not being able to see her made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
He heard her rub her hands together and then felt a gentle pressure of warm fingertips walking along the knotted muscles down the back of his neck. Her touch sent a tingle dancing over his skin, and he nearly groaned out loud. It had been too long since he’d been touched with kindness. When she slid her fingers under the neckline of his cashmere sweater to follow the muscle along his shoulder, the sensation flowed straight down to his groin. It was an inappropriate response on his part, he knew, but he didn’t want her to stop.
He swallowed a protest when she withdrew her fingers and smoothed his sweater into place.
“Have you ever had electrical stim before?” she asked.
He could hear the case being snapped open and then the crinkling of paper. “I’ve never had physical therapy of any kind.”
There was a ripping sound before she walked around to stand in front of him. Her cheeks were tinged with pink again, and her ponytail had fallen forward over her shoulder. He had an almost ungovernable impulse to pick up the skein of glistening red waves to see if they felt as smoldering and silky as they appeared.
Allie held up a small, square white pad with a wire dangling from it. “I’m going to place four of these pads on your neck and attach them to this portable electro stim machine.” She showed him a gray box that looked much like a clunky, old-fashioned cell phone. “I’ll start the current very low and ease it up gradually. The moment you feel any discomfort, please tell me. It’s completely safe.”
He nodded without any thought of the stim. He just wanted to feel her fingers on his skin again.
Allie fixed her gaze on her patient and waited. Most people had concerns about what it would feel like. “Do you have any questions about the treatment?”
“No.” He gave her a glinting look from under half-closed eyelids. There was an unsettling flame in his eyes. “You asked me to trust you.”
“And you couldn’t commit to it.” She was sparring with him to delay touching him again. When she’d brushed aside the thick brown hair that curled low on his neck, she’d felt a shock of awareness. The shoulders under the luxuriously soft black sweater were broad and sculpted with muscle. The skin on his nape was satiny, and she wanted to stroke it in ways that had nothing to do with deciding where to position the electrode pads.
What was wrong with her? She’d never reacted to a patient this way before.
He angled his head down so his neck was exposed. “I’m putting my head on the proverbial chopping block. Work your magic before I change my mind.”
She whisked behind the chair and placed the pad on one of the knots she’d felt. As she draped the wire down his neck, she could swear a shudder ran through him. “Are you comfortable?”
“Perfectly. Proceed.” His voice was tight.
She positioned the other three pads and connected them to the stim unit. Checking the settings, she turned it on and watched him for any sign of distress. He sat utterly still, with his head tilted forward.
“Shall I increase the stimulation?” she asked.
“Push it. I can barely feel anything.”
She dialed the current up to a moderate level.
“There’s a slight sense of buzzing,” he said. “Keep going.”
She increased the current.
“More.”
The setting was already in the high range, but she gave it a tiny bit more juice.
“Should it feel like there’s a frenzied herd of ants stampeding around on my neck?”
She chuckled. “That’s about the best description I’ve ever heard of what electrical stim feels like.”
“I am a writer.” His tone was dry. “How long will the stampede last?”
“Fifteen minutes.” She figured that was as long as he would tolerate sitting still, but it was enough time to have some effect on his tight muscles. “You can lean back and relax. The pads will stay in place.”
He lifted his head and slid back in the chair. “Must you hover behind me?”
“I’d like to monitor the stim unit, in case you become uncomfortable.” She also wanted to avoid those penetrating eyes. That watchful gaze of his seemed to catch every flicker of feeling, every nuance of movement. It was nerve-racking.
“Well, monitor it from beside me.” Irritated and demanding.
Allie rearranged the wires so she could place the stim unit on the table beside the writer. She carefully lifted a polished wooden chair with a needlepoint seat from its position by the wall and placed it by the table. As she settled in the chair, it creaked and she flinched. “I hope I didn’t just break Louis the Fourteenth’s favorite chair.”
Instead of laughing, Gavin gave her a sharp look. “You know your antiques.”
“All I know is that this chair looks old and fancy, so I named the oldest, fanciest person I could think of.” Allie flicked her gaze to the stim unit’s dials and back. “Was it really Louis the Fourteenth’s chair? Because I’ll get off it.”
Now he barked out a quick laugh. “To the best of my knowledge, Louis never sat there, so you’re safe.”
“Is everything in this room old like the chair?” Allie wanted to distract him so he would allow the stim session to continue.
Miller’s gaze skimmed around the parlor. “Most of it. This room was furnished during my collector period.”
“You don’t buy antique furniture anymore?”
“I discovered that old Louis’s chairs aren’t all that comfortable. We’ve made something called progress in the intervening centuries.”
Allie shifted a fraction of an inch, and the chair groaned again, so she froze. “What period are you in now, if you’re not collecting?”
He put his elbows on the chair arms and steepled his fingers, but she saw the way his jaw muscle tightened. “I am in a fallow period.”
Bad
question. “That’s a good farming technique. Rest the soil so it gets fertile again.”
“Metaphors are supposed to be my bailiwick.”
“I didn’t mean to use a metaphor. I grew up in the country. Fallow reminded me of that.”
“So tell me about your roots, Ms. Nichols.”
“Allie.” He nodded. She breathed an inward sigh of relief. She had the country-girl patter down cold. “I’m from a little, tiny town in the mountains called Sanctuary. I grew up riding my pony like other kids ride their bicycles. My friends and I would pack some sandwiches, take our ponies down to the river, swim and have a picnic, and canter back home again before dark.”
“A downright idyllic childhood.” A hint of sarcasm undercut the pretty words. “Did you have a dog, too?”
“My family had five dogs and three cats. And sometimes an orphaned lamb that we’d raise and return to a local farmer.”
“Where’s the conflict?”
“Excuse me?”
The writer turned his body in his chair so he could look directly at her. “You left this vision of bucolic perfection and came to a rude, dirty, noisy city. What drove you away?”
“I told you . . . a great job. I mean, it didn’t drive me away. It brought me to New York.” Allie’s story had never been challenged before. And she always left Troy out of the telling.
“Of course. In Sanctuary, no one would need physical therapy, because no one gets hurt in paradise.”
She recognized the anger generated by pain. Since he couldn’t write, which was the thing he was most successful at, he was in more than just physical distress. She kept her voice upbeat. “It’s a really small town, so there are not a lot of job openings. I had to move, no matter what. New York offered many opportunities.”
When they’d gotten engaged, Troy had given her the choice of New York or Los Angeles, so she’d chosen the city least distant from West Virginia.
“Do you handle only private clients like me?”
Right now, she handled only one patient, private or otherwise. Him.
“Until recently I worked in a rehab facility, but I decided to go out on my own.” Not by choice, of course. Her ex-husband had gotten her fired. “I wanted to have the ability to develop longer-term care plans for my clients. Now I can help them not just to recover from a specific issue, but teach them how to prevent it from occurring again.”
“So you can teach me how not to have writer’s block?” His dark eyebrows were arched in sardonic inquiry.
He’d said it. She hadn’t.
“I can teach you how to counteract the physical effects of writer’s block.”
He sighed. “And here I thought my agent had found a miracle worker.”
“Is the stim level still comfortable for you?” She wished she could fix his writer’s block as well as his muscle aches. She missed Julian Best.
“It’s right on the border of discomfort. I like it.” His smile rivaled a razor blade.
What could they talk about that wouldn’t add to his stress? She’d googled Gavin Miller when Ms. Dreyer had called to tell her about the job, but most of the information pertained to either his writing career or his canceled engagement to the actress Irene Bartram, both of which were off-limits. However, there was that photo of him talking with the famous quarterback Luke Archer after a football game. “Are you a sports fan?”
“What would give you that idea?”
“You’re a guy.” Her smile invited him to share the joke.
“How gratifying that you noticed.” He gave her a look that made little flickers of heat waltz through her. Then he tilted his head as though considering an important issue. “I like ice hockey and tennis.”
“Not football?”
“Ah, you are referring to my association with the legendary Luke Archer.” Anger sparked in his eyes. “I cheered him on in the Super Bowl, which was a mistake. He’s become an arrogant ass. Pardon my language.”
Surprise flicked at her.
“You’re quite welcome to tell him I said so.” Amusement slipped in alongside the anger in Miller’s tone.
“I’m not likely to have the opportunity to speak with Luke Archer.”
“Then I’m quite safe in saying anything I want to about him.”
Her curiosity got the better of her. “Aren’t you friends?”
“Former friends.”
“I’m sorry.”
He laughed, and this time it was real. “He pissed me off last night, so I’m venting. Mostly because it’s impossible to get a rise out of the Iceman. I suppose I still consider him a friend.”
“That’s his nickname, right? The Iceman?”
“One he is not particularly fond of, although he certainly fostered it.”
The stim unit emitted a soft beep, indicating that it had shut down.
“Have fifteen minutes passed already?” Miller sounded almost disappointed.
“I can set it for another fifteen minutes. It will be even more effective on the muscle knots.” She rose carefully from the creaky chair.
He hesitated a long moment before shaking his head. “I’m just wasting your time. Go work your magic on someone more appreciative.”
If she had someone else to work on, she wouldn’t care if they were appreciative or not. “Ms. Dreyer has paid for my time, so you should take advantage of it.”
“Ah, so tempting,” he said with that unsettling gleam in his eye. “But I must decline. Remove the pads.”
Once again he leaned forward so his neck was bared to her. As she bent to disconnect the electrical leads, she caught the scent of him, a slightly spicy, exotic fragrance from his hair that must be the shampoo he used, with an undercurrent of the body-warmed wool of his sweater. It was clean, masculine, and hazardous to her professional demeanor. She fumbled the wire, yanking on the pad that was attached to his neck. She stroked the pad in apology, hoping to soothe any hurt. “I’m so sorry.”
He took a deep breath. “Barely felt anything.” His voice held that strange tightness again.
She paused a moment and closed her eyes, forcing herself to focus on the job and not the man. Once she felt in control, she finished disconnecting the wires and began gently peeling the pads away from his skin. It shouldn’t hurt, but she still found herself brushing her fingertips over the soft skin as a sort of healing massage.
It was impossible to gauge his reaction, because he remained motionless until she had the pads and stim unit back in their case. “You can move now,” she said. “In fact, I’d like you to, so you can tell me how it feels.”
He tilted his head to one side and then the other. “It bends more easily.”
Pleasure glowed through her. “Think how much better it would be after a longer treatment.”
He held up his hand to stop her. “Jane thinks if I can get my muscles to release, my muse will come dancing out of hiding. But she has the cart and the horse in the wrong order. All your good work will be undone by tomorrow morning, because you can’t break through writer’s block with a clever little machine.” He stood and offered her a charmingly apologetic smile. “It’s been a delight to meet you, Allie. I’m the worst sort of patient, so count yourself fortunate that you don’t have to deal with me any further.”
Disappointment and a touch of panic stifled the glow inside her. She placed the stim unit case back in her duffel bag and zipped it closed. She straightened to look Gavin Miller right in his ocean green eyes. “Mr. Miller, it’s the worst patients who need help the most.”
He went still again, his expression turning somber. “You are a wise and determined woman, but you are overmatched here. I am far more pigheaded than you could ever be.” He picked up her duffel, hefting it with a pained look. “You’re also strong. What do you have in here . . . gold bricks?”
She gasped and reached for the handles. “You should not be lifting anything heavy with your back problems. Please give it to me.” Her fingers grazed his, so she felt their warmth as she tugged at t
he bag.
He resisted for a split second before relinquishing it to her and rubbing his shoulder. “My chivalrous impulses are few and far between for good reason.”
“You shouldn’t attempt any jousting or sword fighting, either,” Allie said, following him into the entrance hall. His snort of laughter gratified her, but it didn’t lift the sense of failure that made her feet feel like lead. The duffel was indeed heavy, and she didn’t look forward to hauling it the many blocks back to the subway in abject defeat.
Miller swung open a door concealed in the dark wood paneling to retrieve her coat from the closet. As he held it for her to slip her arms into, his fingers brushed the bare skin of her neck under her ponytail, making her hiss in a breath at the intimate contact. It was the same spot where she had laid the pads on his neck, and she wondered if he had felt even a shadow of the same sensations that were zinging through her body, leaving a trail of heat behind them.
She stepped away from him and turned to zip up her coat. Before she pulled on her leather gloves, she held out her hand. “I wish you the best of luck, Mr. Miller. Your books are terrific, and I look forward to the next one. After your fallow period, I bet it will be the best yet.”
Miller took her hand, his grip strong and warm. “From your lovely lips to God’s unresponsive ear,” he muttered. But then he smiled, and this time it reached his eyes, turning the stormy green to rich jade. “Perhaps your little shot of electricity has indeed penetrated my thick skull and reset my brain.”
Allie nodded and withdrew her hand with a sense of loss. She marched out the door and down the steps with her head held high, as though she hadn’t just lost her one and only client. She’d seen the security cameras on the front of Gavin Miller’s brownstone, so she kept marching down the block until she could turn out of sight onto Madison Avenue.
Only then did she slump against a storefront and let the tears of desperation stream down her cheeks.
Chapter 4
In the narrow, dingy hallway of her apartment building, Allie yanked the mail out of the bent metal opening of her mailbox and flipped through it to find both credit card and phone bills. How the heck she was going to pay them she had no idea. Her divorce had cost more than she had budgeted for, she’d gotten fired from the rehab center, and now Gavin Miller didn’t want her back. “Nothing like piling on an already bad day.”
The VIP Doubles Down (Wager of Hearts Book 3) Page 3